"It's because it's what you love, Ricky. It is who you were born to be. And here you sit. Thinking. Well, Ricky Bobby is not a thinker. Ricky Bobby is a driver. He is a doer, and that's what you need to do. You don't need to think. You need to drive. You need speed. You need to go out there, and you need to rev your engine. You need to fire it up. You need to grab ahold of that line between speed and chaos, and you need to wrestle it to the ground like a demon cobra. And then, when the fear rises up in your belly, you use it. And you know that fear is powerful, because it has been there for billions of years. And it is good. And you use it. And you ride it; you ride it like a skeleton horse through the gates of hell, and then you win, Ricky. You WIN! And you don't win for anybody else. You win for you."

Let me tell you a few things you need to know about me, okay?

I write for me. Yes, I know you're looking over my shoulder, but this ain't about you at all. See, I have all these thoughts that ramble around in my brain about everything from sports to nature to God to television comedies and they never really stop. I used to journal in composition books I'd buy for a buck at Wal-Mart. Even though typing is faster (and legible) and the fine folks at Blogger give me this platform for free, it ain't about the money, either. This is therapy for me.

Writing, if done well, involves honesty. And if I'm being honest, on any given day I can be bursting with confidence or dwelling on deep stuff or struggling with my place in the universe or anything and everything in between. Honesty and transparency in a public forum can be dicey even if you're Ned Flanders. The reality is that I lean more towards Stephen King.

And that's why I'm calling the task before me a The Big Risk.


I know.

We've talked about this before.

And I've been doing some thinking.

About why I'm not writing the book. Or "a" book. Or "books." Generally speaking, you've been very kind in your encouragements. At least, I'm taking them as encouragement when you walk up to me and say things like, "I visit The Diner every day and I never comment but me and my friends have coffee and talk about things you write sometimes and you remind me of (insert a writer you like here) and you should write a book." You could be chastising me or rebuking me (Katherine, Bailey, Ma Deb) or exhorting me or whatever...I'm taking it as encouragment.

But I don't think you know what you're asking me to do.

See, writing is a lonely business. That's why I do this before the fam gets moving. I tried at night but still too much movement.

See, writing is a thoughtful business. I have to think about what I'm going to write about and how to do that in any semblance of a way that will keep me off the therapist's couch (and bank account) and still somewhat enjoy the process.

See, writing is an emotional business. When you write and self-publish in an open forum like this, well, people read it. More people than I'd ever imagine care read it. And they have opinions. Sometimes strong ones that differ from mine. Sometimes ones they voice strongly about things I didn't say. And sometimes it hurts. Sometimes people like it and tell me so, and it makes me smile. But imagine this as a visit to a counselor that everyone is watching on television and you get an idea of what this is like for me.

I don't know what to write about (although the children's book idea is enticing, that's more of an act of worship for me so please don't bring it up for those of you that know about it).

I'm a bit scared of the vulnerability I'd have to put out there to do it well if I could even decide what to write about.

I'm a bit fearful that I'll become this dottering Nutty Professor with a pipe and patches on my sport coat elbows who walks around looking at the ground and muttering to myself and ignoring folks--and my job is the opposite of ignoring folks.

So, it's a Big Risk.

On a number of levels. Stephen King says it takes courage to approach the blank page.

I know precisely what he means, and I feel like I'm standing at the door of the plane after I've been trained for skydiving. I may need a push...

...right after I throw up.